


Not for the Blog

by ThereBeDragons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, F/M, Gratuitous Boxing, Gratuitous Smut, Harkening back to the good old days of S2, Ignoring most of S4 though, Irene's just along for the ride, M/M, Mostly Johnlock, Multi, PWP, Post-Season/Series 04, Sex acts TBD, Sweaty Boxing Sherlock, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-22 15:12:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13766808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereBeDragons/pseuds/ThereBeDragons
Summary: John and Sherlock have been circling each other warily ever since John moved back to 221B. Neither one will risk the first move.Until Irene Adler arrives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Felt like some Johnlock PWP sprinkled with a little F/M/M smut would brighten my day!
> 
> (Neither beta'd nor Brit-picked, so please let me know of any typos, inconsistencies, or unforgivable Americanisms. Ta!)

She must have known.

 _How_ she knew was beyond John’s reckoning, but he’d had enough experience with deceitful geniuses not to doubt it.

Of course she knew.

She knew that it was John’s day off from the surgery, and that he’d been at the shops wrestling valiantly with chip-and-pin machines to procure their meat and veg for the week. That Sherlock had been out humoring Lestrade—as he was so much more likely to do these days— finishing up (tedious) paperwork from the Mazarin Stone case. That Rosie was at the nursery, playing happily (John hoped) with her little group of preschool friends. That Mrs. Hudson was next door, having tea-and-gossip with Mrs. Turner.

That the flat would be empty for a few hours that morning.

That Sherlock and John would arrive home at precisely the same time—Sherlock emerging, elegant and unruffled, from a taxi, while John trudged up to the entrance of 221 Baker Street, overburdened like a pack mule and sweating in his heavy jacket in the watery February sunshine.

“Ah, John. There you are,” Sherlock said absently. It was feigned. He was not preoccupied, not where John was concerned. He’d made that mistake in the past but he wouldn’t again.

Not that he’d ever let John know.

So he waited at the door, tapping imperiously at his mobile, while John huffed in annoyance, set down the parcels none too gently, and fished for his house keys, all the while grumbling, “Too busy to get your keys. His Majesty, who takes taxis, and who can’t be bothered to stop at the Tesco for tea that he drinks and biscuits that he eats, and can’t fish his keys out of his pockets because…”

“Because I’m saving lives,” Sherlock intoned gravely, still typing. “Restoring priceless gems. Exonerating innocent lives. Trivia, clearly.”

“Trivia,” John agreed, pushing open the door. He blocked Sherlock’s way in, however, standing there with his eyebrows raised meaningfully.

With a put-upon sigh, Sherlock pocketed his mobile, stooped down and carefully selected the smallest, lightest bag of the shopping. “There. Are you happy now?”

“Ecstatic.” He waved Sherlock through the doorway, picked up all the (many) remaining bags, and heaved his way up the stairs, grumbling again. That was feigned, too. This was how they were meant to be, and he was happy—no, ecstatic, he'd hit upon the right word—ecstatic when they’d returned to normal (what was normal for them, at least) after all the insanity of the last year. John didn’t mind doing the shopping and hauling it all up the stairs. He didn’t mind Sherlock’s swanning in at the last moment and expecting to be let in, waited on, brought his tea and nagged to eat. It was how things should be. Not that he’d let Sherlock know he felt that way.

And if John was at quite relieved (and only a hint disappointed) that Sherlock, sweeping up the stairs ahead of him, wore the long Belstaff that covered his arse…well, John wasn’t going to say a word about that either. He wasn’t even going to acknowledge it in his own head. Better not to think such things, lest they be deduced by certain infuriating (brilliant) geniuses in his life and blurted out into the open, where they’d ruin this tenuously happy (abnormal) new normal John had the fortune to be experiencing right now.

Best to keep it all to himself.

With his head down to watch his step (and avoid the wool-clad arse disappearing up the staircase), and the weight of the parcels, and the added distraction of those many thoughts he wasn’t meant to be thinking swirling around in his head, John could perhaps be forgiven for letting momentum carry him swiftly up the last few steps into the flat—and crashing directly into Sherlock’s back.

“Oi!” John cried, dropping one of the parcels: _thunk_ onto the floor, apples for Rosie’s snack rolling out and under the sofa. “What the buggery fuck!?... _Oh_.”

Because Sherlock moved—enough—from where he’d stopped just inside the door to the flat, and John, his sight no longer obscured by six feet of lanky detective, finally saw what had frozen Sherlock stock still.

John let the rest of the parcels fall. To hell with the shopping.

“Hello, boys,” purred Irene Adler.

She lay across the leather sofa, clad in a short black trench coat, very high heels, and—to John’s eyes—nothing else.

(Sherlock, of course, noted the lines of a miniscule wrap dress underneath. No pants. This information would not have been an improvement upon John’s state of mind, so it was just as well that Sherlock left it unsaid.)

Irene reached a languid arm down and caught one of the escaping apples. Her nail varnish matched the apple’s deep red almost exactly, and John wondered how she’d managed that. Next he wondered if he were going mad. Finally he remembered that he ought to be angry.

“Oi,” he said again, even louder this time. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, I’m lying on your settee, eating an apple.” She took a bite to illustrate her point.

Sherlock, infuriatingly, huffed out a laugh. “Irene,” he said, fondness coloring his words. “What _are_ you doing here?”

“Just in the neighborhood. A girl can visit some old friends, can’t she?”

John looked between the two of them and barely choked down a groan.

_Bloody buggering fuck._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irene makes trouble. Again.

_The Woman_ , Sherlock thought. _Irene_.

He’d seen her only once since Karachi. She looked good. Almost unchanged.

(John, on the other hand, thought she was entirely unchanged: forever-youthful due to some Dorian Gray kind of sorcery that undoubtedly involved midnight incantations and hen’s blood and the placenta of virgin lambs; Sherlock, however, could see the carefully-concealed markers that John missed: a wrinkle here, mostly covered by Irene’s fringe; the softening chin, almost-unnoticeable due to the arched position of Irene’s neck. She was the most artful, intelligently-crafted person Sherlock had ever met, as well as—he’d learned—a formidable enemy. He was glad they were friends now.

Not that he trusted her any more than he had in the past.)

 _Irene Fucking Adler_ , John thought. But he was a British man, a father no less, and ingrained courtesy won out over his barely-suppressed desire to pick her up off the couch and kick her (perfect) arse down the stairs. Taking one of those deep, calming breaths his therapist was always going on about, he tried counting to ten in his head, only got to four, and barked out, “Tea?”

Two sets of eyes slid over to deduce him. Bollocks.

Irene smiled, arched an eyebrow, licked her top lip with just the tip of her tongue, and slid her hand suggestively up her bare thigh. Only then, when she had his full, riveted, attention, did she say, “Tea sounds lovely. Thank you, John.”

It was so fortunate the shopping was already on the floor, as he might’ve dropped it all over again.

He stood there, blinking at her. Sherlock cleared his throat. Twice.

“What? Oh, right. Tea. I’ll. Erm. Make some tea.” John fled into the kitchen and busied himself with the kettle. Tray, cups, tea…oh, blast it to hell and back, the tea was still in the sitting room, in one of the abandoned Tesco bags on the floor. Gripping the counter John tried his therapeutic breathing again.

He’d gotten to six this time when Sherlock wandered into the kitchen. “You’ll be needing this, I believe.” He held the Tesco bag like it was some kind of alien lifeform. No. Sherlock would be _fascinated_ by an alien lifeform. He held it the way John would hold a bag of sanitary towels: with the air of “ _I know these things are necessary for some people but I’d rather not think about it, thankyouverymuch_.”

“Thankyouverymuch,” John muttered, swiping the bag away and banging the tin on the counter. He prepared the tea like he was loading his Sig, with precision and a show of deadly calm. Inside, he seethed. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Count to ten. One…two...

“John. You needn’t be disturbed. She’s just here for a visit. Some tea.” Sherlock tried to pitch his voice convincingly.

John laid the tea-fixings down and smartly about-faced. He bestowed upon Sherlock his most merciless Captain Watson stare.

Oh.

Oh my.

The (disingenuous) words of reassurance shriveled up and died in Sherlock’s throat.

With a decisive nod, John turned back to the tea. (Turned back into gentle Dr. Watson).

Sherlock wondered—again—how John did that. How he could make Sherlock’s knees go weak with a glance.

(Later. He’d think about it later. Alone, when Irene was gone and everyone else asleep, Sherlock would lie on his bed and luxuriate in the memories he’d saved: every Captain Watson from his Mind Palace, every crisp order and military stare that made Sherlock’s spine tingle and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He’d indulge himself. Now that John was back at 221B where he belonged, Sherlock could savor the fantasies of John in his uniform; John turning that glare on Sherlock and ordering him to his knees, and Sherlock before him, obeying, sinking down, staring at polished black combat boots before raising his eyes and opening his mouth to…)

“Enjoying yourself, Sherlock?”

Both men’s heads whipped around, and a tea spoon clattered to the floor.

“What? Oh, yes, why…” Sherlock tugged the sides of his Belstaff closer around him, grateful he hadn’t yet removed it. The precaution of a long coat, to hide that he was half-hard in his trousers because of his short friend… “Just helping John with the tea.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Irene was laughing at him, her eyes alight with mischief as she lounged in the doorway. “Perhaps we should make ourselves at home,” she said, and slowly—slowly—unbuckled her trench coat, slid it off, and tossed it onto a chair.

John’s noisy swallow was audible to them all.

Somehow, the dress she wore underneath was even worse than if she’d been naked again. It was a blue so dark it was almost black, and to call it minute would be a cruel overstatement. The neckline plunged; the wrap of the hemline split mid-thigh. It was worse than naked because it begged—nay, practically commanded—to be taken off, untied and slipped from those pale shoulders…

“John. Do you have something caught in your throat? You seem to be swallowing rather convulsively.”

With great difficulty, John swiveled his head away from the sex goddess in his kitchen doorway and toward his flatmate. Sherlock looked…odd. Vulnerable. Almost upset. John’s brow creased with concern.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly, Irene (almost) forgotten.

“Yes. Quite,” Sherlock replied. Brusque. Agitated.

Irene chuckled again from the doorway. “What does a girl have to do for some tea around here?” she asked, sliding the shoulder of her dress down her arm. Another inch and they’d see her nipple, her full breast…

“Oh god,” John muttered. He shut his eyes and started counting in his head again.

“Irene,” snapped Sherlock. “Can’t we have some bloody _tea_ without your performing a strip-tease?”

It was so unusual for Sherlock to swear. John opened his eyes to appraise his friend, who was sweating now. “Sherlock. Take off your coat. It’s too hot in here for that.”

“Yes, it’s hot in here, isn’t it?” Irene played with the knot at her waist.

“If you take that dress off I’m going to drag you back to Karachi and behead you myself,” Sherlock snarled. He stalked out of the room and pulled off his Belstaff, hanging it by the door and pulling his suit jacket down, making sure everything was covered before he returned to the kitchen. Blast, blast, blast her to hell and back. Everything had been going so well…

Compared with the scene in the kitchen, tea was almost a normal affair. John briskly gathered up the parcels from the floor, put the milk and meat away, plated some biscuits, and they sat down in the sitting room like civilized Britons had for a thousand years.

“Lovely tea,” Irene said. If she’d stuck her pinky out she couldn’t have been more of a caricature of a lady in a tearoom. John was always struck by Sherlock’s chameleon-like ability to don a new identity as easily as John shrugged on a new jumper. Clearly Irene was the same, switching character the way other people changed the song on the radio: effortlessly, with brief attention to the setting and mood. Obviously taking tea required turning into some kind of middle-class matron pouring extra cream into her cuppa. John wondered what Irene would be like stripped of all the artifice. What was she like when she wasn’t playing a role?

Even naked, she was still in disguise.

 _Don’t think about her naked_ , he told himself sternly, and of course then he thought about her naked, and blushed furiously.

“John. You’re thinking. It’s annoying.”

“Sorry.”

“So,” Sherlock said. A brief, insincere smile flitted across his face. “What brings you back to London?”

“A client. Someone I couldn’t refuse.”

“For sex, or the selling of state secrets?”

“ _Sex_ ,” Irene scoffed, repeating Sherlock’s word instead of answering the question. “I don’t have clients for _sex_. I have them for fantasy. For the fulfillment of their wildest, never-before-revealed and realized dreams. For their darkest desires. For what they want. For what they _need_.” Irene abandoned the lady-at-the-tearoom act mid-way through this speech and returned to sultry pinup, making eyes at Sherlock and toying with her neckline.

Sherlock flicked his fingers dismissively. “Wasted on me, Irene,” he reminded her. “Do keep up.” He’d been happier to see Irene before she started seducing John with her ridiculous burlesque show. Now he just wanted her gone.

She laughed—a throaty chuckle—and said, “Yes. I know what you like. You like him,” she said, eyes cutting over to John. “And _you_ ,” she addressed John this time. “You like the both of us.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I joined a boxing gym last year (soon after the 2016 elections. Gee, I wonder why). When I read that there was a boxer in the original ACD "Adventure of the Mazarin Stone" I knew I needed to put Sweaty Boxing Sherlock in a fic…
> 
> As always - please let me know about any typos or other glaring errors! Thank you :) See the end for more notes, too.

John took it out on dinner, pounding the steak until it was practically flat enough to see through. Rosie, safely ensconced in her high chair and dropping crayons one by one onto the floor, looked up from her delighted explorations of gravity to ask, “Daddy? Daddy bang?”

“Just making supper,” John said through clenched teeth. “Don’t want this meat to be too tough.”

“Daddy make supper,” Rose said, satisfied on that matter. But still, all was not well in her world. “Where Uncle Lock?” She said it as one word— _Uncalock_ —but John knew whom she meant. Of course.

Huffing an exasperated breath, he answered as patiently as he could, “Uncle Sherlock is out. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” Sherlock had swanned off with Irene after that fiasco of a teatime. After she dropped that bombshell…No. Nope, he wouldn’t think about it. “We’ll have nice steak and vegetables for supper, then your bath, and Daddy will read you a story and you’ll go night-night.”

“No. Uncle Lock read story,” proclaimed Rosie imperiously. For not-quite-two, she certainly knew how to assert herself.

“If Uncle Sherlock is home I’m sure he’ll read to you,” John said. He’d hammered the meat so thin it no longer fit into the pan, its paper-width sides flopping over onto the range. John bit back the curses he wanted to utter (having a toddler in the house was really quite the remedy for his Army vocabulary), pulled the meat from the pan and savagely sliced it into pieces. There. Back into the pan, and no, he wasn’t going to think of Sherlock off with Irene, and what she’d said, and the dead silence with which they’d received her declaration. He _liked them both_ , indeed. In actuality, he wanted to throttle them both with his bare hands.

Nope, not thinking about it. These carrots and onions need to be chopped very fine…

“Daddy? Why you bang?” Rosie asked, then threw the rest of her crayons on the floor. “Where Uncle Lock?”

John carefully lay the knife down on the counter and said, “Just a moment, Rosie.” He walked purposefully into the living room, braced his hands on the windowsill, and, under his breath, uttered every swear word he knew.

*

Sherlock took it to the boxing gym.

It had been years since his Baritsu training, but the basic elements of martial arts had returned to him almost immediately. The pleasure of body and mind synching into one efficient machine; the joy of sweat pooling on his neck and chest as he faced off a skilled opponent; the hard, physical work and the way it wiped everything else from his consciousness, if only for the two minutes at a time he spent in the ring.

It was a simple equation. If he got distracted—if he thought about John—he’d get punched in the head. So he’d better not think about John.

The over-tattooed brute he faced now in the ring outweighed him by at least two stone, but was slow and muscle-bound. What Sherlock lacked in mass he made up for in speed, and in the ability to predict where his opponent would strike. This one would turn his head a fraction in the direction he was planning to punch, giving Sherlock ample time to block his blows. It was better when he could slip or roll out of the way, but the man had cornered Sherlock against the ropes and was pounding him with hooks— _bam, bam, bam_ —but quick as lightning Sherlock lifted arms to block, block, block. He tasted the sweat dripping onto his lips. It was marvelous.

The man—Carl? Cole? Something with a C—was getting angrier and, thus, sloppier. He switched from hooks to jab again. Then he pulled his right arm back, taking a split second too long before hitting Sherlock with his killer cross…and Sherlock ducked underneath his arm, put his full weight into his next swing, and hit the man with a stick punch directly to the side of his head.

(Not a gentlemanly punch, and perhaps not quite sporting to use in the ring, but Sherlock’s arms couldn’t take the bruising anymore.)

 _Bam_. The man fell to his knees. One, two, three…he was down for the count.

Sherlock pumped his arms over his head—the universal _I’ve won_ symbol—before he could stop himself. Embarrassed, he lowered them immediately, but Sam Merton, the boxer he’d met during the Mazarin Stone case, seemed not to think the gesture out of place. He ducked under the ropes and clapped Sherlock on his sweat-drenched back.

“That’s how it’s done! No one’s bested Kyle in ages. You’ve quite a punch for a skinny bloke…”

Sherlock ignored him. He climbed out of the ring, loosening his left glove with his teeth and pulling it off. One hand free, he’d started in on his right glove when a flash of color by the door caught his eye.

Bright red lipstick on a pale face.

Diamond earrings glinting in the bare bulb overhead.

Tight black trench coat and vertiginous heels.

Irene.

As out of place in the gritty, rank gym as a princess visiting a derelict council flat.

How long had she been there?

Long enough, clearly. “Good show, darling,” she drawled, scanning him appreciatively. “You look a treat, all sweaty and rough. Reacquainting yourself with the pleasures of the flesh, I see.”

“Irene,” Sherlock said, “I thought you had…business.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Oh, that was over ages ago. And I got _so_ bored. I thought it might be amusing to come watch you.”

“And be watched,” Sherlock added under his breath. He could feel the eyes on them: the men, the few women: all staring.

Irene stepped close enough to whisper. “Yes. Watching us. The big one wants to fuck you.” She jerked her head minutely towards…what was his name? Cole? Carl? Sherlock had already deleted it. “He was distracted enough to let you win. But the rest of them want to fuck me, don’t they? Or the both of us. Hmm. Reminds me of your dear Dr. Watson. Wanting us both."

“Shut up, Irene.”  
  
She clicked her tongue at him. “Is that all you have to say? That’s unlike you, Sherlock. Hot and flustered.”

Unfortunately, it _was_ all he had to say. Fuming, he began to unroll his wraps, coiling the first one in a loose ball as he whipped it off his hand.

“Oi, done already, Holmes?” Sam Merton called from across the room. He’d stopped hammering one of the heavy bags and jogged over towards them. “I thought we’d get in another round or two.”

“Not today.”

“Too bad. Who’s your lady friend here?” Sam leaned against the doorway and smiled at Irene.  
  
Sherlock snorted. “Barking up the wrong tree, Merton.” Done unwrapping his hands, he squeezed the sweaty wraps in one fist and wondered how fast he could get out of there. How fast he could get Irene out, too. Get her back to her hotel room. To the airport and out of the country. Out of his life again.

Reading him—deducing him—Irene batted her eyelids. She answered Sam but looked at Sherlock. “Oh, I’m no lady.” To prove the point, she took a quick step in toward Sherlock, balanced on the tip-toes of her already too-high heels, and darted her tongue out to lick his neck.

Sherlock jerked away. Sam threw his head back and barked out a laugh. Irene grinned, smug as the cat that got the cream.

Wiping his neck, Sherlock snapped, “Really, Irene. Must you call attention to yourself all the time?”

“Why ask questions when you already know the answers?” she teased him.

“Sam Merton. Boxer.” Sam pulled off his right glove and stuck out his wrapped hand for Irene to shake.

Daintily, she put her tiny hand in his big one. “Pardon your warp?” she murmured. “Irene Adler. Dear, dear friend of Sherlock’s.”

“ _Old_ friend,” Sherlock added nastily. “Very old.”

“Now, now. Play nice. Is this your establishment?”

Merton puffed out his chest with pride. “Co-owner. Nearly lost it all but for Holmes here. Cleared my name in a stolen gem case. It’s a pleasure to box with him.”  
  
“I can see that. Sherlock has all sorts of hidden talents, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, that stick punch took me by surprise.” Sherlock’s tattooed opponent had recovered sufficiently to join them. He swigged some water, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, clearly disappointed, “You unwrapped. I thought we could go another round.”

Now that Irene had pointed it out, Sherlock wondered how he’d missed the unmistakable desire in the man’s glance. Perhaps because it seemed so out of place on that menacing pugilist’s face, above a chest like a tree trunk and arms like slabs of beef. Objectively, the man wasn’t completely unattractive, if one went in for that sort of thing.

Sherlock, however, did not.

“Thank you, Cole. But no.”

“Kyle.”

“It’s still no.”

Sherlock strode over to the corner of the room where he’d left his gym bag. Cramming his boxing gloves and wraps into it, he wished he were in his suit and coat and scarf. His armor. Then he could sweep dramatically out of the room in a swirl of coat-tails, half-hidden by his raised collar, immaculate and untouchable.

Instead he was forced to trudge across the gym in a sweat-soaked t-shirt, athletic shorts, and trainers, lumpy sports-kit flung over his shoulder. Irene was the flawless one. Standing in front of the door—blocking his way out, of course—she was laughing at him again, all the while flirting idly with Merton and spurring Curt on. It was _hateful_.

“Good-bye, Merton. Cole.”

“Kyle.”

“Yes. Whatever. Irene, please step aside _or I will have to move you_ ,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

“No need to get peevish, dear. I’m leaving, too.” Irene opened the door and presented the outside with a flourish. “Can’t have you walking alone through the East End like that, half-dressed and positively dripping with pheromones. Who knows what kind of beasts you’d attract,” she said, winking at the other two men. “I need to get you home to your Dr. Watson, safe and sound.”

“What? Who?” Cole asked.

“I wondered if it was like that,” Merton said, an uncharacteristic flash of understanding crossing his face. “All right. Next time, Holmes. You and me in the ring.”

“Me too,” Cole said. “You owe me another round.”  
  
“Another round of what?” Irene wondered as she and Sherlock stepped out of the fetid gym and into the blessedly-cool air of Watney Street. “You know he’s picturing you on your back, dear, those long legs of yours up on his wide shoulders…”

“Shut. Up.”

“Tsk, tsk. Is that any way to speak to an _old_ friend? Come, let’s get you home. I can see that you’re cranky. You need a shower and your dressing gown. And your faithful John.” She strode off down the street, heels clicking on the pavement, hips swaying enticingly underneath the black trench coat.

Slowly Sherlock hissed out a breath.

It was going to be a long night. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader onallcounts asked for sweaty, powerful John, too - so here he is! Enjoy xoxo
> 
> The quote, "You won't die in your bed, Holmes," comes from the ACD story, "The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone."

John Watson was, as always, a study in contradictions.

He liked nothing more than to relax in the quiet coziness of their untidy flat. His cushy chair, feet up by the fire, a strong cup of tea and a good, trashy novel. Rosie sound asleep in her little cot upstairs. All warmth and domestic comfort, peace and tranquility.

He liked nothing more than that…except, perhaps, for a good fight.

When the door crashed open John’s first thought was, of course, _Sherlock_. What the hell was he up to now? For Sherlock was never far out of his thoughts, and with Irene’s sudden reappearance…well, John was unsettled.

So Ike Saunders, one of the accomplices in the Mazarin Stone case, probably should not have come smashing in, crowbar in hand, and disrupted an already-agitated John. It was like whacking a hornet’s nest that had just settled down after a storm. Outward calm barely concealing inward rage. Not. A. Good. Idea.

John looked up from his novel to see Saunders, panting and practically snarling, and had three simultaneous thoughts:

_Damn, I'd hoped it was Sherlock._

_That’s a nasty-looking crowbar._

_We better not wake Rosie; she’s always a bear to get back to sleep._

With a put-upon sigh, John placed his bookmark in the novel, set it carefully aside next to his tea, and rose to his feet. It was Captain Watson who addressed the man.

“I thought the police had you.”

“They can’t hold me. Where is he?” He brandished the crowbar menacingly.

John didn’t budge. “I assume you mean Sherlock? He’s out. And even if he were in, I wouldn’t let you near him.” His voice was deceptively calm.

The man laughed. Who could blame him, really? To all outward appearances Saunders was facing a five-foot-seven, graying, forty-something doctor. Mild-mannered. Practically feeble. No match for a professional heavy with a steel wrecking bar.

Saunders spat at him, “I’ll just have a look around for myself.” And made the mistake of turning his back on Captain Watson.

John was on him in a flash, both hands on the crowbar, twisting to pull it from Saunders’ grasp. Then he was the one with the steel bar, blocking the path to the rest of the flat. “Don’t make me use this on you,” John warned, his voice low.

“Try me.” Saunders got in his face, looming over John and making a grab. He had a good half a foot and sixty pounds on John, as well as being almost two decades younger.

 _This_ , John thought, _is going to be fun._

Perhaps it was unfair of John to take out all his irritation on a poor, unsuspecting criminal. His rage at the roller-coaster of the last couple of years; therapy notwithstanding, John still had a lot of shit to work out. His annoyance at Irene’s unexpected (unwanted; unnecessary) visit. His frustration at the way he and Sherlock were still circling each other, getting closer and closer but never touching. Never acknowledging the…whatever it was…between them.

Unfair.

John, after all, had the crowbar in his hands.

One minute John was standing there, almost at ease, with the steel held loosely, almost casually. Blink your eye and you’d miss it: John’s first strike came so quickly Saunders literally didn’t know what hit him. He’d had his hands up to protect his head so John smashed the bar into the side of his knee. That brought the man down closer to John’s level. Ribs next, aiming for his head now…

Throwing his arms up, Saunders was able to block that blow, hollering vicious threats and obscenities.

 _Christ, he’s going to wake the baby_ , John thought. _And Mrs. Hudson is going to kill me._

In a hysterical fury, Saunders launched himself at John and grabbed at the crowbar. John almost sighed. It was like taking candy from a baby. Easier, in fact. If he took candy from Rosie he’d have to deal with her Sherlock-level tantrums. This was Boot Camp 101: Hand-to-Hand Combat. Except he was going to use his feet, too.

Kicking one of Saunders’ legs out from under him, John leveraged the bar and they crashed to the ground. Rolling and grappling, John ended up on top, kneeling over the man and holding the crowbar against his neck.

Hands scrabbling against the metal, Saunders choked out, “You. Short. Motherfucker,” before John pushed the bar more firmly down on his throat and silenced him.

“Short but lethal,” came a familiar baritone drawl. “It doesn’t pay to underestimate John.”

Making sure Saunders was still immobilized (safety first—always), John turned his head in exasperation. Lounging in the doorframe were Sherlock and Irene.

“You clot,” John said. “You couldn’t help me out here?”

“You were doing so well on your own,” Sherlock said. “And Lestrade is on his way. This time, perhaps, he’ll manage to keep this…wart on society…off the streets.”

“You,” Saunders gasped, trying to push the bar away and get to Sherlock. “You won’t die in your bed, Holmes. I’m going to…”

“Shut it. You’re going to _nothing_.” John gave the crowbar another shove, holding him firmly in place. To Sherlock, he said, “Will you move your lazy arse already and get some of those handcuffs I know you’ve swiped from Lestrade?” John’s knees were feeling the hard, wooden floor, and he felt foolish, somehow, with Irene’s eyes trained on him and that smirk on her lips.

“Two sweaty, fighting boys,” she said. “It’s been my lucky day.”

John rolled his eyes. The things Irene enjoyed. Saunders was not an attractive specimen.

“Not _him_ ,” Irene said, her voice positively torrential with condescension. “You and Sherlock.”

“Sherlock? When was _he_ fighting?” John asked, but it was good he didn’t expect an answer from that infuriating woman, since he didn’t get one.

Instead she continued, “These poor, sad men you’re taking it out on. When all you need is a good, long, hard…”

“Irene,” Sherlock reprimanded, sharp warning in his voice. He strode over to John and together they rolled Saunders onto his stomach and cuffed him. With duct tape they secured his legs, and—when the man got his breath back enough to start spouting off again—slapped tape across his mouth, too.

“There,” Sherlock said, satisfied. He sat back on his heels and smiled at John, the post-case, just-for-John, genuine smile that appeared so rarely. John couldn’t help but grin back, stupidly happy in spite of himself.

Only then did John notice Sherlock’s attire. The…gym clothes? And _trainers_? When did Sherlock wear trainers? “Are you…is there a new case?” John asked.

Irene snorted from the doorway, a distinctly unladylike sound. “You two are hopeless,” she pronounced. “It’s a good thing I’m here.”

“Yeah, right,” John muttered. Knees creaking painfully, he stood. Through the baby monitor John could hear Rosie whimpering. Luckily it wasn’t full-blown screams yet or Saunders surely would’ve noticed. For obvious reasons they tried to keep Rosie’s presence in their lives concealed from the public—especially the criminal public.

“Let me take care of…things upstairs,” Sherlock said. “I hear the sirens outside. Lestrade will want to take your statement.”

John nodded. Rosie would be delighted that Uncle Lock was home.

“That’s my cue,” Irene said. “Shall I make myself comfortable in the bedroom until your silver-fox Detective Inspector is gone? No, John? Such a pity. Sherlock, you know where to find me. Thank you for the _loveliest_ of days. Ta! I’ll see you both tomorrow!”

Irene disappeared down the steps and Sherlock up to Rosie, and John surveyed the mess of the living room (furniture overturned; tea spilled; his favorite mug broken, blast it) and the bound criminal writhing with almost rabid fury. John swung the crowbar and listened to the satisfying _thwack_ it made against his palm. He heard car doors slamming, some shouting outside, and then footsteps pounding up toward them. He had no doubt that Irene had managed to vanish into the night.

It would be hours before bed, then Rosie up again at dawn. John sat down heavily in his chair and slumped back, adrenaline leaving his system as quickly as it had come. As Lestrade burst into the flat, calling out, “John? Are you all right? We lost Saunders and Sherlock said he came after you with a crowbar…” John thought, _The worst of it?_

The worst of it was that Irene would be back tomorrow.

***

Okay, it might be a little while before I get back to this! Real life has this pesky way of interfering with my fanfiction...


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